Drifting
by Limelighter
Summary: Gordon's experiences in the aftermath of a life-changing accident.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer - all TB characters in this story are trademarks of ITV/Granada (who should give it back to Gerry btw!)_

_many thanks to the TIWF for their encouragement, and to LMB for once again being my literary crash dummy and helping me out with this right from the beginning. Big thank you for the title as well! _

* * *

There is a woman.

She has curly red hair and green eyes. A light shines just above her head and it makes her look like an angel. That's funny, and normally I'd make a joke; but I'm too tired.

There's a lot of noise. People are talking, and moving, and saying lots of important things, but the woman is silent.

She's staring down at me, and holding a bag next to my face which she squeezes every few seconds.

The bag is yellow, and hisses whenever she squeezes it.

The room is getting blurry.

She's talking to me now.

She keeps telling me to stay awake.

I don't listen.

* * *

I'm not sure how much time has passed.

I vividly remember that woman with the red hair, and then an odd sinking feeling that seemed to last forever, but after that there is an indeterminate gap where I can remember nothing at all. Only darkness.

I'm not sure when I arrive at the path, yet I find myself walking along it now as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

The path is an old dirt road, with hayfields on either side. There's no noise here, just the soft occasional breeze that sweeps past me and moves the grass gently. The sky is blue and clear, and the sunlight is so warm and hazy it seems to have a physical presence. It's just like where we grew up, only better - heightened somehow - with all the best bits and none of the bad.

I walk down the road and I'm filled with the same sense of confidence I get when I play a practical joke on my brothers.

I'm being bad by following this lovely path. But not bad in a terrible way, just like I'm being cheeky and mischievous, like a naughty schoolboy disobeying the teachers. That sounds just like me.

For a long time the mood is calm and indulgent, and I can just enjoy my journey in relative peace. I'm happy here, and I don't want to give in to the people who are a bit cross about my journey.

I still have no idea what I'm walking towards, but I know that with every step, I become more and more relaxed. I keep thinking about how mad my brothers will be when they find out what I'm doing, and I feel like laughing…but that feeling doesn't last long.

As I continue to walk down the path, I begin to realise that I'm really upsetting people.

At first, that's fine; I don't really care what anyone else thinks. I'm tired, and it's nice here. It's a nice, easy route and I can just drift away if I want to.

That's what I've decided to do.

It's my path and I decide the rules. I'm too tired, so I'm going to enjoy myself, and drift off to the comfy place.

I walk on, at peace with myself and my surroundings. And yet something is starting to change. I can feel the humour slowly draining away. The mood, which had been so loving and tolerant before, is now angry and scolding.

I immediately stop walking and try to listen. It's a strange sensation. I can't hear anything, but somehow I know that Dad is mad at me. I don't want him to be. He doesn't get cross unless I've done something really bad.

As soon as I realise this, I come to my senses a little. I look ahead to the horizon - my goal - and somewhere deep down, I register that this is really wrong.

I shouldn't be joking about this, and I definitely shouldn't be on this path.

I'm in serious trouble, and I need to listen to Dad.

So, I stop messing about and do as I'm told.

I turn around.

Going back is incredibly difficult, for some reason. It's agonisingly hard to pull myself away from that comfortable place, but I force myself to continue.

It feels like I'm hauling myself, flat on the ground, with only my fingernails able to propel me forwards.

After a lot of time passes, the path slowly disappears and dissolves into darkness and I feel like I've achieved something.

Now, there are brief periods of awareness, where voices filter into the inky blackness. I can't hear what they're saying; just the sound of their voices. Sometimes they're familiar, and that brings me some comfort, but I'm far too weary to respond.

Most of the time it just sounds like a low echoing murmur, a wonderfully familiar hum that sounds exactly like being underwater. I don't think I am underwater though. Because, as good as those periods of wakefulness are, I always return to a numb and silent sense of drifting.

The whole thing is very confusing.

I try to understand why I'm feeling like this, and I come up with nothing.

I eventually recall the woman with the red hair, and someone else talking urgently to me. There was a helicopter, and water…but then there are lots of pictures that don't seem to make sense.

When I think about it, nothing really makes sense at the moment. I know I need to return to somewhere…but for the life of me I have no idea how to do that. As I become gradually more aware of my state of mind, I get more concerned. I'm not frightened, as such, there's just a nagging sense of doubt at the back of my mind…I shouldn't be like this. Things shouldn't be this confusing.

Something bad has happened.

I try to think: to understand how I got to this point.

It takes a long time, but distantly, a picture forms in my head and I begin to remember.

The hydrofoil had crashed.

I had been fighting to save it. Something had gone wrong, and there hadn't been time to figure out how to fix it. I could feel the adrenaline surge as I desperately tried to correct the problem, and then I remembered that sense that I was losing the fight - and I had to give up trying to stop it happening.

I was going to die.

I didn't panic, and I didn't pray. I wasn't even scared…just sad. All my choices were taken away, and there was nothing more I could do but die.

I thought my life would flash before my eyes, or I'd see Mom waiting for me, but nothing like that happened. I just remember feeling sad, and closing my eyes.

That's the last thing I can clearly recall. After that it gets hazy

…Is this death?

I've never tried to define death before, but I've always assumed it was a stop; a definitive, and conclusive cutting off of life.

This can't possibly be death.

Things are different now, but I'm fairly sure I haven't stopped. I'm still me, I think…So what's happening to me?

I'm in a strange kind of stasis where I'm aware, but at the same time completely oblivious. Part of me knows that I have to return to the place where my family are, but another, stronger part of me just wants to drift in this void and mend.

There's no pain here, and I know enough to realise that that is a very good thing. I can dimly recall screaming, and blood, and agonising convulsions… but that's all gone now. Here I can just relax.

I feel weak. And I need strength for this…so I sleep.

* * *

_Reviews are always welcome and appreciated._ _Chapter two coming soon._


	2. Chapter 2

I don't like this feeling.

It's exhaustion like I've never felt before. A bone weary, enervated sensation that I can't escape from no matter how hard I try. Facts, ideas and meanings slip from my grasp despite my best efforts to think normally.

Stringing together even the simplest of thoughts is almost impossible.

I feel a strange sense of detachment about everything I'm experiencing. If I had the energy, I think I would be in a state of frantic terror over my situation, but as it is, I'm too tired to indulge in wild emotions like that.

Time passes.

Time doesn't really mean much to me at this point, but I'm aware of it. That's what's so easy about this place. No specifics. Nothing as complicated as facts or emotions. Just a vague sense of things.

I like the periods when I can hear the voices - even if I can't understand what they're saying; their presence brings a vague sense of relief that is quite soothing. The voices remind me that I'm still alive, and I try to hear them more often, but that is a monumental struggle. For some reason pushing myself to do anything other than drift takes a great deal of concentration and effort, so I do nothing for a long time, enjoying the stillness.

I could happily stay this way forever.

After some time passes, a voice permeates the darkness. Its quiet and sombre tone holds my attention; though I'm not sure why. I can't recall the name of the person talking - or even his connection to me - but I know I don't like hearing him cry. He's speaking softly, his deep voice intimately familiar even in the confused state I find myself in.

I haven't really tried to do anything for a long time, but for some reason hearing that voice galvanises me into action. That voice is important to me, and I want to hear it more clearly. I want to talk to him.

I decide to fight a little harder, and sacrifice a little of the numbness I'm feeling. I devote all my energy to fighting to pull myself closer to the voice. It's draining, but I feel that if I relax for even a moment, then I'll sink further into the darkness. Sometimes, I think back to the path and how relaxing it had been, and the idea of just letting go is so inviting; but I know I have to continue on. I don't have a choice.

Eventually all the struggling pays off, and there is a small success: I become aware of a new sensation.

There is a heaviness that wasn't there before. It's difficult to describe the sensation, as it's something I always took for granted before; the feeling of being present in one's own body. I focus on that indistinct sense of weight for a long time, trying to remember how to use it to my advantage. Nothing happens, but there is a familiarity to the sensation that is comforting, and it means that I'm a little closer to coming back.

When I begin to hear that deep voice again, I find it clearer and sharper than before. I still can't really understand what the person is saying, but I don't think it's because I can't hear him; I think it's because I can't focus enough to listen to the words. Does that make sense?

This is my first real achievement since the hydrofoil, and I feel like I should celebrate…but I'm tired.

Time passes.

I only begin to listen again when I realise that the voice has changed. This new voice is quite soft and quiet, and I find myself connecting it to all sorts of strange things in my head. The voice reminds me of the smell of oil paints, for some reason, and music. Calming music.

In a flash, I am taken back to my childhood. I'm ten, and the owner of the voice is picking me up and throwing me into a pool. The memory comes back so strong and immediate that I can almost taste the chlorine. I remember the splash as the person jumps in after me, laughing along with me as I surface and splash him in retaliation.

It's a tiny, insignificant memory, that has now become more important to me than anything else in the world. I cling onto that memory for a long time, remembering that sensation of happiness as different voices fade in and out.

It's a little easier to focus now.

That fuzziness that made thinking impossible is now gone, and I can concentrate on hearing. I'm quite content as I listen, but one thing I begin to notice is that these voices never sound happy, and I never hear laughing. That's strange. I'm used to laughter.

That's who I am - I think - I'm the guy that makes people laugh.

Maybe that's why the voices are unhappy, because I'm too tired to tell jokes at the moment. I don't mind that they're sad though, because any noise is nice - or at least it would be nice, were it not for the regular interruptions.

I don't know how long it's been going on - maybe I just wasn't aware of it before - but the strange woman turns up pretty regularly now. She asks me to do things; little things, like squeezing her finger, or opening my eyes. Even if I were able to do what she asks, it's impossible to fathom why she's asking me to do something so stupid and trivial; so I don't respond.

She doesn't like that.

Whenever I don't respond there's a sharp pain from somewhere, and I can feel myself jerk in response. I think she's doing that to me to punish me for not responding the first time. What kind of a cruel woman would do that? And why are the other voices letting her do it?

See, it's things like that which make my existence at the moment incredibly confusing. I don't like feeling confused.

I really feel like I should be making a joke about this. If my brain would work properly, I'm sure I'd come up with something genius.

I think that it's time to wake up.

I've never been a patient person, and I'm sick of things not making sense. I don't want to just hear the voices, no matter how clear they are. It isn't enough any more. I want to feel everything. There are people who are waiting for me, and I want to see them.

My thoughts spur me into action, and I once again struggle to claw my way back. It's draining. I can't describe the mental strength it takes to return. Small flashes of consciousness and memory begin to merge together out of time and sequence, and soon I start to feel a little more like myself. I find myself focussing on the most trivial of recollections, simply to give me the will I need to continue on.

As time passes, I begin to feel myself recover.

I remember my brothers' faces, and my gold medal hanging on the wall, and dozens of little moments in my life that I'd almost forgotten about, but I first notice something is different when I think about my father. Up until now that word has just been a vague term that I didn't really associate with myself, but now I can picture him. My Dad. He has blue eyes and a quiet, chuckling laugh that sounds exactly like mine. He always listens to me, even when I'm being an idiot, and he ruffles my hair when he's proud of me.

I don't know how, but somehow I know he's sitting right next to me, willing me on and supporting me, just like he always has. He's waiting for me to come back.

It gives me renewed strength, and I take comfort in Dad's unwavering faith in me.

I sleep intermittently, and each time I awaken, I feel a little more like myself.

There's still a comforting sense of numbness, but now I can feel the important things.

There's a whole world that I'm now aware of. I can not only hear new sounds and noises - but I can also connect those sounds to tangible things; to facts.

There's the billowing sound of a curtain blowing in the wind to the left of me, and a steady beeping noise from a machine beside me. There's the hum of a computer, and something that sounds a bit like bellows. And then there's a voice. I can understand them now, and it was worth the effort.

I'm filled with a delirious sense of euphoria that my fight is nearly over: I can finally hear my brother.

It's Alan. Alan is speaking to me. I feel like jumping for joy at the sound of my little brother's voice, and allow myself a moment just to relish in my own achievement. I want to hear him talk about that ridiculous red sports car, and all those little mechanical details that he rambles on about. I want to know how his last race went. Did he win? I must have missed so much.

I'm so happy and excited that it takes a moment for me to realise that something isn't quite right. I pause, listening to him as best I can.

Alan sounds exhausted.

That elated sense of triumph slowly fades as I concentrate on my brother's hollow voice. I've never heard him sound like that before. He sounds as tired as I feel, and his voice is almost completely devoid of feeling. Why is he talking like that? I try to focus on what he's saying, instead of just the sound of his voice.

" …He wasn't happy about us making him leave, Gordo, you should have seen his face."

He sounds like he's smiling, but there's no humour in his voice.

"He needed the sleep, though," he continues numbly. "We've all been a little off the past few weeks…if I were you, I wouldn't want to wake up to the atmosphere round here…"

he tails off into silence. I wish I could see him. Knowing Alan, he'll be fidgeting and trying not to look at me. He was never good with heart to hearts. I want to tell him a joke to cheer him up, but there's nothing funny about this.

"He'll be ringing soon to check in with the doctors," he continues, his voice still in that quiet dull tone that sounds so unlike him. "Would you like to talk to him on the phone? He'd love to talk to you again. Imagine if you woke up at the one time he leaves you. That'd be some practical joke. Your best ever…all you have to do is open your eyes."

I think about that. He wants me to open my eyes. It doesn't seem like something I'm capable of. I try a little…I can't do it. I can almost feel Alan's eye boring into mine as he wills me to respond, and I so want to do what he asks, but I can't.

There is a long silence.

"…Please open your eyes, Gordon."

Alan's plea is whispered so quietly it's almost inaudible. There's a desperation in those words that shocks me to the core. I try. I really try to force my eyes open, but I can't. It's like I can't connect my thoughts to my body; the numbness is still stopping me.

There is silence in the room, and I can sense Alan is waiting for a response that will not come. I hear him sigh quietly, and he doesn't speak for a long time.

I don't like this.

I don't like making my brother sad.

Why can't I move?

I listen to the silence, straining to hear Alan say something else, but he doesn't. I can hear a hitch in his breathing, and then a sniff; then there's a quiet breathy noise as my little brother cries beside me. The sound is muffled slightly. I think his hand is over his mouth to remain as quiet as possible. He doesn't want me to hear.

I don't like this.

I thought I wanted to hear the voices, but this hurts. I want to talk to Al and I can't. Why can't I do it? What's happened to me?

I start to panic.

I want to see Al and I can't.

What's happened to me?

I try to take a deep breath but I can't do that either. Something is in my throat. I can't breathe. A machine starts beeping loudly next to me, and I can hear Al shouting something.

I'm upset.

I can't breathe.

I want to wake up.

Why can't I wake up?

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_Thank you for all your lovely reviews and messages; they're always appreciated! Third and final chapter coming soon._


	3. Chapter 3

When I come back to myself, the first thing on my mind is Alan. I hope he's okay. I don't mean to make him upset like that, but I can't help it.

I don't know how much time has passed since he spoke to me and, for the first time, I find that alarming. How long have I been putting him through this? Alan never cries, and that emotional outpouring must have been building up since this first happened.

Guilt weighs heavily on me now. Alan is upset, which means the whole family must be upset too. Without realising it, I've been making them all miserable.

I'm so caught up in considering the events of earlier, that I almost don't notice the change in sensation that has occurred.

The darkness is gone and soft light penetrates my eyelids. It's strange to see light after so long in the dark, and it takes a little while for me to adjust. I want to open my eyes so desperately, but I still find myself unable to do so.

I listen out for any familiar voices around me, for some indication of where I am, but I find myself in a silent room; well, not completely silent. There is still the sound of a computer, and that beeping noise, but if anyone is sitting with me then they aren't in a talkative mood. I can hear movement though; I'm sure someone is standing right beside me. I gradually become aware of the scratch of a pen on paper, and then a rustling sound as the person moves around me. A woman's voice breaks the silence and I listen closely.

"Mr Tracy, it's Doctor Bradley. It's time for your GCS tests again."

She has that same dull tone that Alan had before, only she's a little better at hiding it than Alan. She's not fooling me: she doesn't want to be here any more than I do. It's strange how I can hear little things like that in a person's voice now. I don't think I've ever been so perceptive: maybe it's a superpower? I feel like laughing at the thought as the doctor moves around me, and eventually stops, sighing wearily.

"Okay, let's get this underway. Can you feel my fingers on your hands?"

I can't feel my own fingers, let alone hers. What a ridiculous question. And why is she calling me Mr Tracy? That's my father. I'm Officer Tracy…or Gordo, if you like. She sounds quite pretty actually. I wonder what she looks like?

I'm thinking about a tall blonde woman with blue eyes when there's a sharp pain from somewhere. Without thinking, I yank my arm away from the pain. That hurt! Suddenly Doctor Bradley isn't sounding all that hot, why did she do that?!

"Very good, Gordon," she commented brightly. "Your father will be pleased with that. You're up to a four now."

A four in what? What am I a four in? I wish she would stop talking in riddles. First she's causing me injuries, and now she's confusing me with random numbers. I'm starting to feel tired again, and she is not improving my mood in the slightest.

"Next one is a little trickier, Gordon. Can you open your eyes for me?"

I pause and think carefully about what she's asking. She's not the first person to ask me to do this recently. I really want to open my eyes, if only to prove to Alan that I'm still in here…but with every passing moment I'm growing gradually more weary. Even if I weren't so tired, I don't think I could bring myself to do it.

There's a loaded pause, until the woman moves again beside me.

"Guess not, huh? Don't worry, you'll get there eventually. How about speaking? Do you think we can get some noise out of you today? Can you say your name?"

Gordon. My name is Gordon. I say it over and over again but the numbness prevents me from making a sound. It's frustrating to the point of madness. I can't help but think that if I could just keep myself awake then I could do as she asks, but that's proving difficult.

"If you can hear me make a sound…just a little sound, that's all I want."

I'm screaming, desperate for her to hear me, but she remains completely oblivious.

I hate this.

I don't like this Doctor Bradley, and I don't like having my limitations laid out so bare in front of me. All these questions have exhausted me. I don't want to think anymore. This is a miserable state of affairs, and I want to sleep again.

If Doctor Bradley asks anything more of me, I don't hear it. I'm completely drained and, for once, I welcome the darkness as it sweeps over me once again.

Time passes

When I wake again, the first thing I am aware of is a familiar voice talking in a monotone. It is muffled at first, but becomes gradually more audible as I return to this peculiar state of consciousness. I can hear him clearly now, and I realise that I haven't heard his voice in a long while. It's a similar feeling to when I first heard Dad; hearing my big brother's voice is incredibly comforting in a way it has never been before.

I listen to him speak for a while, and feel a little like when I used to wake up after a training session in the pool. I ache, but not to the point of agony. It's just a sense that I've been working hard, and my body is letting me know that it disapproves. I used to love that feeling, but now it seems out of place. I haven't done anything to warrant feeling like this.

Slowly, I stop listening to Scott and turn my attention inwards. It takes me long moments to realise why I ache like this.

Suddenly, I want to cry in relief.

I ache all over, and I can't move, but for the first time since this happened, the numbness is gone, and I can feel again. I'm lying on something soft, and I can feel my chest gently rise and fall as I breathe. There is a dry sensation at the back of my throat, and someone has taken my hand and is running their thumb up and down it. It's not just that, though. Something else feels different. Something in my head. I'm not just stringing together facts anymore. Instead, I can connect those facts to memories and sensations. For the first time in a long time, I feel like Gordon Tracy.

I'm elated, and desperate to share my happiness with the people around me. I want to jump for joy! That's probably pushing it a bit, though. I think I'll wake up before attempting any complicated acrobatics like that.

Scott is reading from a book about marine life. I can hear him turning the page as he talks about deep sea exploration. He sounds incredibly bored, and I really want to laugh at him. That's one good thing about being sick, I can get my brothers to do things they'd never normally do.

I'm tempted to torture him for a little while longer, and let him read right to the end of the book, but I think the poor guy's been through enough.

No excuses now. It's time to respond.

I'm not going to be beaten by a silly little carbon fibre boat that didn't even work properly in the first place.

I'm a Tracy. And I'm not going down that easily.

My first step is something simple. I'm going to move my hand. Moving is almost impossibly difficult, but it's not painful; I've just forgotten how to do it. I think for a long time about it, trying to familiarise myself with my own body again. That sounds strange, doesn't it? But it's true. I'm just not sure what muscles I need to move anymore. After long minutes of being unable to move, I begin to think about the injuries I've sustained...what if I'm paralysed?

I banish that thought from my mind as quickly as it appears, and focus all my attention on my right hand: I need to move my fingers. I try to picture myself moving through water, trying to mimic the movement, but that doesn't work. That hand just doesn't want to respond. The person holding it is oblivious to my struggle. He is gripping it softly, moving his thumb steadily up and down. Somehow I know it's Dad. He hasn't said a word but I know it's him.

This is my final struggle.

I steel myself, and summon all I have left, channelling all the energy I can muster into forcing my fingers to move. Success! I can feel my index finger jerk in response at first, then my hand slowly curls around Dad's. I feel him jump, and the room goes quiet.

"What is it?"

Dad is silent, gripping my hand experimentally.

"Dad, what is it?" Scott repeats.

Come on, Dad, tell them. Tell them I'm here.

Dad is apparently ignoring all the questions, and he's leant closer to me, whispering my name hesitantly.

"…Gordon?…Can you hear me, son?"

I can. I can hear you. Why can't I talk? I'm so tired after that effort. I want to drift again, just for a little while, but Dad is still talking to me.

"Son, come on now. I know I didn't imagine that."

"Imagine what, Dad? We- "

"Hold on, Alan," John interrupts. That's not like him at all.

Dad's voice is quiet and determined as he continues, "Gordon, I know you're tired, but…you can hear me. I know you can…Squeeze my hand again, son. You can do it."

He wants me to do it again? It was difficult enough the first time, but my father's unwavering faith in me makes me steel myself to try again. Now I know the parts that need to move, I remember a little better.

I try for several moments with no response, and I can sense my brothers sitting back in their seats, clearly thinking their father is going insane. Dad is silent, and I know why; he's waiting for me to act.

That spurs me on and, drawing from reserves of energy I didn't know I had, I curl my fingers slowly over. I hear a choked gasp from someone, and a beep as someone else presses a button by my head. The boys are all moving around me again.

"That's good, Gordon," Dad continues, his voice still lovely and calm. He sounds like he's smiling. "That's really good. Can you open your eyes for us?"

Eyes. Right. This time I'll do it. I try, but my eyelids feel incredibly heavy. I don't succeed, but there is an audible reaction from the people around me. Clearly I did something.

"Come on, Gordon, keep trying. You can do it." That's Virgil! Are they all here? I try again, and manage to open them just a crack, the blurry lights flickering in my sight for only a moment. The light is painful, so I shut them again almost immediately, but the reaction from everyone is amazing. They cheer, whoop and laugh loudly, and the noise is completely overwhelming, until Dad hushes them.

When the room is once again silent, I open my heavy eyelids slowly, blinking as I get used to the new sensation. The room is blurry, but becoming clearer with every passing moment.

There are people standing around my bed. They slowly come into focus. Dad is there, and all my brothers. They're all looking at me with tears in their eyes. There's another man, too. He's wearing a white coat.

"Hi, Gordo," Alan says. He looks nervous. I try to smile at him, but that's difficult. Now I'm awake the tiredness has hit me like a freight train. I breathe in, and feel something in my nose that's supplying me with oxygen.

I try to respond to Alan, but my voice so cracked and hoarse it's barely audible, even to me. I feel like there's barely enough strength in me to even stir the air. Dad turns to the doctor, still holding my hand gently.

"Can I give him some water?"

The doctor nods and Dad turns away from me, only to return a moment later with a glass of water.

"Sip it slowly," he gently instructs, putting a straw at my lips as dad works his hand under my neck and gently lifts my head.

I do as he says, and sip the liquid slowly. The cold water is heavenly but, as I swallow, I feel how dry my throat is and I can't help but cough weakly. I am reminded of the aching sensation throughout my entire body, but I am somewhat removed from it now; I don't know whether that's tiredness, or if it's due to whatever medication they have put in the IV…or it could be a sign of something worse. Before I can even begin to dwell on that, Dad takes the drink away and lowers me gently back onto the pillows. He quickly resumes his position in the chair beside me, taking my hand between his.

"Better?" he asks. I try to nod, but can't find the energy. I try to say 'thank you' but it just comes out as a murmur. Everyone smiles, though. I think they understood.

I look at Dad wearily as the doctor steps forward and starts to examine me. Dad looks tired and worn, and since the last time I saw him it would seem he's lost weight. The lines on his face are etched deeper than normal. I look at him and try to speak, but again, it seems to be quite difficult. I wonder why? Dad notices the movement, and smiles, looking as though he's about to cry. I just watch him as he gets his emotions back under control.

"You've done so well," he says gently, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "I'm so proud of you."

I shut my eyes, just focussing on the feeling of his hand in mine as the doctor checks the many monitors around me. I curl my fingers around his again gently, and he squeezes back. It's strange how that little action takes so much energy.

I know that I'll sleep soon, but there's one thing I need to do first, if only for myself.

I slowly open my eyes again and look over to my brothers, all of whom look as though they're torn between bursting into tears and exploding with excitement. I smile without even thinking about it, a lopsided, weary smile that sums up how the entire room is feeling.

The boys all grin back at me, though it's apparently too much for Scott, who quickly turns his back to me. Virgil laughs and puts a hand on his shoulder sympathetically. Scott's never been big on public displays of emotion. John has tears running down his cheeks, but I don't think he's noticed, and Alan is just grinning from ear to ear; I can't help but respond in kind.

"Welcome back, bro," Alan says, still grinning. I slowly inhale the cool oxygen, and sigh.

"Thanks," I breathe. My voice is slurred and cracked from lack of use, but it doesn't matter: I'm back with my brothers. There's a choked noise from Scott as I speak, and Virgil nudges him in a half affectionate, half joking manner. I laugh breathily at that.

There's so much I want to say, but the effort of waking has finally caught up with me.

I know that, now I'm awake, the real recovery begins; but I don't worry about any of that. I close my eyes and drift into a calm and contented sleep.

I know that my family will be here when I wake up.

_The End. _


End file.
